


cause to celebrate

by saltcalendar



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, POV Second Person, Pre-Canon, Vaginal Sex, too many descriptions of clothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:48:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29122194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltcalendar/pseuds/saltcalendar
Summary: “Evening, Corporal,” you say, setting down his ale first, right in front of him on the stained tablecloth, before haphazardly handing out the others.“Not anymore!” roars the Marine next to him, clapping him on the back. The one across the table leans over, points to the triple-chevron on his sleeve, crowing, “He’s just got his promotion, this morning! He’s a sergeant now. Our very own Sergeant Tozer!”
Relationships: Solomon Tozer/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 14





	cause to celebrate

As long as there are Marines in Woolwich, there will be Marines at the Golden Dog—no matter how your mother frets that the new gin-palace up the street is stealing all your customers, no matter how your father fears that you’ll never get lodgers again after that rude lieutenant spread such a horrid rumor about vermin, there will always be the reliable redcoats.

On this unseasonably warm October night, it’s a familiar group of young men from the barracks, carousing in the taproom at their usual table in the corner. Five or six of them, all handsome in their own ways, but you only have eyes for one.

“Evening, Corporal,” you say, setting down his ale first, right in front of him on the stained tablecloth, before haphazardly handing out the others.

“Not anymore!” roars the Marine next to him, clapping him on the back. The one across the table leans over, points to the triple-chevron on his sleeve, crowing, “He’s just got his promotion, this morning! He’s a sergeant now. Our very own Sergeant Tozer!”

Tozer nods, when you look to him for confirmation, seeming proud and a bit disbelieving still. “That’s wonderful,” you tell him, sincerely. You can’t imagine someone who deserves it more than he. You’d usually leave it at that, but somehow the words trip out over your tongue: “Are you doing anything special to celebrate?”

And he’s looking at you, now, _right at you—_ all creased eyes and knowing smile—and your heart thrums and you feel your face go horribly red.

“Dunno,” he drawls. “Am I?”

A few hours later and the Marines have polished off their steak and oysters, and you’ve cleared their plates, and brought over more beer, and collected their shillings, and every time you’ve gone to their table it’s been Tozer who’s caught your eye, giving you all sorts of signs: unless you’re dreaming, but you’re fairly certain if this were a dream you’d be wearing a nicer dress.

Eventually the other regulars begin to clear out, and soon the Marines will be gone too, and Tozer with them. You don’t have long to make your move.

From the kitchen, you can hear your parents arguing, their nightly row over money and tax that will keep them distracted for the next hour or two at least. You give your brother, polishing glasses behind the bar, a sort of desperate look. Twenty-one and a man already—one day soon he’ll do a better job of running the Dog than your father, a kind-hearted man with a poor memory and worse eyesight.

Your brother rolls his eyes, catching your meaning right away, but then he nods, speaking without words in that way you two have had since you were children: _Go on then, I’ll keep the peace._

You smile gratefully, and, with a steadying breath, take yourself off to stand by the door right across from the Marines’ table, lean against the wall and try to catch his eye without being too obvious.

Lingering there as the minutes tick by, you feel like an absolute ninny. He’s not even looking at you! His mates have his attention, they’re laughing and singing, but just as you’ve given up all hope—

“Gentlemen,” you hear Tozer say, and the scrape of his chair on the flagstones, and then he’s walking right towards you, intent unmistakable in his eyes.

You turn and he follows; you feel his presence at your back, hear his heavy boots on the wooden floor as he follows you through the door, past the public rooms of the tavern and into the private quarters. The heat that has been pooling between your legs for the last hour, watching his head and neck silhouetted by the fire in the brazier, the shine of his uniform’s buttons and buckles, is now pulsing insistently.

Down the corridor past the empty lodging-rooms, up a crooked set of narrow stairs, across the landing and through the door to your own attic bedroom. The minute the door closes behind you he’s looming above you, pinning you against the plaster, kneeing up between your skirts with one wide thigh and running a hand along your cheek, thumb playing at your lower lip. “You wicked thing,” he says, “you wicked, pretty thing, d’you know how long I’ve wanted you?”

What are you meant to say to that? You’ve never been good with talking, let alone talking to men, let alone talking to beautiful broad-shouldered Marines with sturdy hands and hair like gold. You can’t possibly find the words to say, _me too,_ or, _I think you’re wonderful,_ or _every time you come in my cunt starts to ache and doesn’t let up till you’ve gone._

So instead you just say, “Sergeant,” looking up at him in awe, and his face breaks into a surprised smile.

“Forgot for a moment,” he says. “About the promotion.”

You run your hands up his chest, lifting one hand all the way to his chin, stroking the sparse beard there that charms you more than it ought to. “I’ll remind you however many times you like,” you say, and then he kisses you, then, deep and sweet, mouth still tasting of the ale you poured for him special. You clutch dizzily at his waist for a few moments as he runs his tongue along yours, and then your desire reasserts itself, and, a bit frantic, you start to undo the buttons up his front without looking.

When you loose the top button and pull the whole thing off, you see that he’s got on leather braces, bowed out from the impressive width of his chest. You tug these down off his shoulders as you kiss him again, and when you draw back you see curls of dark hair peeking out from the neckline of his undershirt, thrilling you beyond measure.

You expect—you _want—_ him to push your skirts up, get his solid hands on your arse, lift you up and fuck you right there, against the wall or turned around with your hands braced on your dressing-table. You’re ready for him, more than, the emptiness of your cunt an active affront, but instead when he turns you it’s to unpick the knot holding your apron on, then to start at the hooks up the back of your dress.

“You don’t have to—” you say, impatient, shifting from foot to foot.

“Come off it,” he murmurs, low and enticing. “Gorgeous tits like yours, you wouldn’t deny me a look?”

Of course you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t dare deny Sergeant Tozer a damn thing. The thought of his want for you coming somewhere even close to yours for him has you in an utter state—you don’t even have words for it.

He’s making quick and easy work of your dress, now, and the waistbands of the three stiff petticoats underneath, which perhaps to another girl might be cause for alarm—how many women has he had, then? what depravity! what looseness!—but for you, it only makes you breathe faster, thinking of all the things a man like him must know, the places he’s seen, the ways he’ll make you feel.

Once there are four layers of cotton crumpled to the floor around your feet, he goes for your corset-laces, but his breath on the back of your neck is driving you mad, and after a moment you can’t resist rubbing your arse back onto him, desperate to feel—yes, _that,_ good Christ, that thick yard of his, you _knew_ it was a monstrous thing, you want it in your hand, in your mouth, in your cunt all at once—

“Fuck,” he groans, his hands stilling, as you tease him harder, and feel him respond in kind, rutting eagerly against your backside and making urgent low noises in the back of his throat. It’s wonderful while it lasts, but soon you turn back around, tug him by the trouser-waist across the small room and fall onto the bed, pulling him on top of you as the old wooden frame creaks below.

More messy kisses—he bites at your lip, prompting a surprised squeal to which he responds with a satisfied laugh—the two of you tumbling tangled together until his hard prick presses up against your leg and reminds you all at once of what you need more than anything.

You spread your legs, lift your chemise, and he gets this hungry look on his face, almost like an animal, and it thrills you to see, knowing you put it there, without even trying. Well, not _too_ hard. Well, not as hard as you’d expected to. Nearly.

“Yeah?” you say, and he nods, so you think, _right then,_ and lean forward to pluck at his flies, but he pushes you back, a forcefulness that leaves you breathless in the best way, and, unexpectedly, plunges his head between your legs.

“Sergeant, oh—!” you exclaim, a terribly girly laugh bubbling up out of you, and you raise your hand to bite down on so you don’t cry out loud enough for everyone downstairs to hear.

He’s lapping at your cunt with greedy enthusiasm, sending sparks of clenching pleasure up your spine, and the scrape of beard against the tender inside of your thighs is the harmony to the music of his mouth on you. Attending to every inch of your soaked cunt, drinking you up until you begin to shake around him, his hands coming around to tease at your thighs and calves while your hands twist in the sheets.

You’ve been ready for this for months—ever since Tozer started coming by the Dog, bringing with him his rowdy soldier friends who he always seemed to tower above, not by height necessarily but by some ineffable criteria of his own heart and soul, which sometimes it seemed only you could see—so it’s no wonder that your crisis is nearly upon you very soon, and you’re gasping, “There—just like that, yes—oh, God—!” as with one last purposeful stroke of his tongue across the place your pleasure rests your whole body is rocked with the intensity of your climax.

When his head emerges from under your skirt, hair mussed so sweetly and face flushed with his own enjoyment, you can’t help but lean forward and kiss the taste of yourself off his lips, before tugging his shirt off over his head, and assisting him in shucking his trousers down to his ankles.

Then, at last, good Lord, at _last,_ he’s bare before you, a perfectly furred chest that you want to bury your face in, some light pink scars dotted across his abdomen and a line of three stars tattooed on his hip. His arms are sculpted and tanned, veins standing out near his wrists, and his prick, absolutely stunning, a beast of a yard with a fierce dark head already leaking.

Tozer backs up onto the narrow bed and guides you to straddle him. You’re not willing to wait a second longer to lower yourself onto his waiting prick, which you do with eyes squeezed tight at the glorious stretch of it, bordering on pain, but the most perfect, wonderful pain. Beneath you he groans, clutching at your thighs as you settle in. His strong hips begin to piston up to meet your own motion, and you find an easy rhythm, fitting together so well, just you and him.

He’d gotten your corset half-undone earlier, so the laces are loose enough to tug it off and away now all by yourself, and then you pull your shift over your head and toss it aside too, because he wanted to see your tits, so he’s damn well going to see them. 

His eyes widen as he takes it all in—you try not to look away or get embarrassed, because his attention is almost too much, feels far too good having his prick in you, let alone having his gaze settle heavy on you like that, so lustful and pleased. His hands come up to your tits and fit perfectly around them, like he was made to touch you just like this, swiping at your nipples with his big rough thumbs as you ride his incredible cock.

“How is it?” you whisper.

“How is it,” he repeats, “fuck, do you have to ask?” He must think you far more experienced than you are—as experienced as he is, even—you don’t know what on Earth gave him that impression, but you’ll do nothing to disabuse him, not now. “You’re just perfect, yeah,” he goes on, “knew you would be.”

It’s getting to be so much—you don’t want it to be over too soon, and you dearly loved those little angry sounds he made earlier when you were rubbing against him through his clothes, so you slow down, riding him deeper and harder, and it feels amazing. “Oh, _yes,”_ you say without even meaning to, and then he groans, throwing his head back, and when he lifts it back up he’s got a look of fond mock-outrage on, which surely bodes _something,_ but you’re not sure what.

Until—before you can say a word—he rears up, puts his hands around your waist and just— _flips_ you, right over onto your back with unseemly strength and unmistakable intention, and the roughness of it nearly has you at the edge again, gasping helplessly and wrapping your arms around him, clutching at his broad bare back as he begins to fuck you again, hard and fast now.

“Like that, yeah?” he rumbles, and you whine out a wordless affirmation, something between _please,_ and _oh fucking Christ,_ and _I can’t believe you’re real._

You lift your legs to let him get in even deeper, and soon you can feel him tightening up as he speeds his pace, driving into you with athletic intensity, beginning to lose control.

“C’mon, c’mon then, you close?” you ask, and he just nods, his mouth hanging open, face gone all sweetly slack as he looks down at you. “Come on my tits,” you say, “I want you all over me,” and then you bite your lip, because if that isn’t half the dirtiest thing you’ve ever said out loud in bed, you’re usually quiet as a mouse, but this rugged soldier’s got you turning into a filthy-mouthed moaning doxy.

He pulls out just in time, kneeling above you and giving his full reddened stand just one—two—three pumps with those gorgeous thick fingers before he’s spending across your chest, following your order like a good Marine.

He sits back on his heels, panting, and for a moment you let your mind go totally blank, just gazing at him in his golden glory. Without thinking, you draw a finger up the pool of warm seed on your skin, and put it in your mouth, sucking it clean with as rude a sound as you can manage.

He shakes his head, looking absolutely adorably impressed. “Unbelievable,” he says, “who would’ve thought? That sweet little barmaid from the Dog. Nobody’d believe me.”

“Then don’t tell,” you say, reaching for him. “It’s just for you. Nobody else.”

He falls on top of you, an immense warm weight, the heavy heat of him a balm to your heart. He covers you perfectly, and it’s all sticky between you now but you don’t mind, you just want to feel him pressing down on you, covering your face and neck with lazy kisses, his softening prick against the top of your bare thigh.

Soon you fetch up your chemise from where it fell beside the bed and use it to carefully clean the both of you off, all in service of being able to lie there and trace shapes in the curling hair on Tozer’s chest, listen to his strong easy breathing and wonder about his scars and marks, where he’s been, where he’ll one day go.

Eventually, with an astounding force of will, you tear yourself away from him, and go to your wardrobe to pull out a clean shift. You can hear him behind you shuffling about on the bed, presumably pulling his shirt back on and his trousers back up, which gives you a small pang of grief.

You continue dressing, trying to be businesslike about it, but it’s hard when he’s stepping behind you, wrapping his arm around your front, letting you feel his wonderful cock already stirring again. It takes all the strength you can muster—thinking of the dishes lying dirty on the bar you’ve got to clean before you sleep, thinking of your father’s accounts you need to help your brother check over—to push him away.

“You come here every week,” you say, in a tone that you hope sounds confident and mature, and not absurdly needy. “And I live here. So.”

“So…?” he prompts.

You take a deep breath. Can you manage the filthy talk even when most of your clothes are back on, as long as he’s in the room with you? “So,” you try, “you’ll fuck me the next time you come. And the time after that. If you want.”

Not your best work, but he seems to approve well enough, letting out a barking laugh as he slings his braces back over his shoulders. “I want, yeah. You could say.”

You pick his red coat off the floor and hold it up, admiring the sign of rank adorning its arm.“It suits you,” you say. “And—oh, don’t shrug like that. There’s no need to be modest, Sergeant. You’re the man for the job.”

“You can call me Solomon, you know,” he says, taking the coat from you. “Or Sol.”

“Solomon,” you repeat. “Sergeant Solomon Tozer.”

“Like how it sounds?”

“I do... I really do.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> listen...................


End file.
